


l’habit ne fait pas le moine

by orphan_account



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: i am actual trash what is this, it's 1 in the morning, kind of lawlight i guess, lots of guilt woo hoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his blue gardens, men and girls came and went - like moths among the whisperings of the champagne and the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	l’habit ne fait pas le moine

**Author's Note:**

> okay so firstly - it is currently about one thirty in the morning and this is completely un-beta'd, so if you see any grammar issues please (please please) feel free to tell me.
> 
> secondly - l is my favorite character from death note and i am still not coping, dear god help me, so this is very emotional and weird. i think i'm probably projecting.
> 
> title is a french proverb, the end (and summary) quote is from the great gatsby.

In the end, it's really the gravestone that hits you the hardest.

The ceremony was sad, the wake was  _awful_ \- but the oppressive silence of the graveyard is deafening and suffocating and you walk away before L is even in the ground.  _(Your fault.)  
_ If you could undo anything, it would probably be this.

The gravestone is void of anything but the stylized L he first used to contact the ICPO. (He was not a husband, or a father, or a son. His friends are all in jail. No one knows what to say.)  Your father goes home with tears in his eyes and you pretend not to notice, lingering behind on the pretense of lost gloves and sadness and goodbyes. Misa kisses your forehead. Matsuda hugs you tightly.

The guilt eats you from the inside out and you find yourself wishing that they would just  _stop touching you so fucking much._

There's a sharpie in your pocket, next to a folded piece of paper. The handwriting is yours but the words are not - you rummaged through L's room after his death, only to resurface with nothing but a guilty conscience and a dog-eared copy of the Great Gatsby. There are words highlighted to the point of nearly tearing through the page, yellow bleeding through onto the other side, and you tear it out. You cry. You bring it to the funeral with you and hold it tightly in your palm like an apology.

_ You are Kira. _

The plot is quiet now - the priest is gone and everyone else soon followed. You're alone. You're lonely. You laugh, rough and angry and self-deprecating, a harsh bark in lieu of the tears stinging your eyes. _You are Kira._ No one will come back here, no one will see. You throw your coat on the ground with a heavy thump.

_You wanted this - you wanted him dead, don't you remember?_

The recently overturned earth beneath your feet smells overwhelmingly of spring and growth and you  hold the pen's felt-tip to the stone, acknowledging that this won't be permanent - wind and rain and erosion and time will wear the marks away. Maybe even the L itself will even disappear, leaving the carved marble faceless to the point that people will walk past this spot and they will not know. They will forget. 

You pull your knees to your chin and jam the side of your thumb in your mouth.   
You may have wanted this, but _you_ will not forget.  You don't think L was lying when he said that he considered you a friend.   
You weren't when you said the same to him.

Wind reddens your cheeks and messes your hair, needling uncomfortably through the knit of your dark sweater. You suck a deep breath into your lungs, the smell of dirt sneaking into your nose, before taking your pen in hand to copy the folded up and black-blurred words from yellow-stained paper to stone.

_"However gifted you are, you alone can't change the world."  
_

For you are Kira, God of all gods, creator of the new world, a guiding hand, a swift force of justice, and you have killed the only person who could possibly convict you of that - but now you take your pen, uncap it, press a quick kiss to the cold stone, and use your words for good.

_(In his blue gardens, men and girls came and went - like moths among the whisperings of the champagne and the stars.)_

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer - i definitely do not own death note.


End file.
